Penelope bore it well--if there was anything to bear, and perhaps there was--to her. It might be trying to have her youngest sister married first, and to a young man, but for whom Francis would himself long ago have been in a position to marry. He told us, on Saturday, the whole story: how, as a boy, he was meant for his uncle's heir, but late in life Sir William married. There was a coldness afterwards, till Mrs. Charteris died, when her brother got Francis this Government situation, from which we hoped so much, but which still continues, he says, "a mere pittance." It is certainly rather hard for Francis. He had a long talk with papa, before he left, ending, as usual, in nothing. After he went away, Penelope did not appear till tea-time, and was "as cross as two sticks," to use a childish expression, all evening. If these are lover's visits, I heartily wish Francis would keep away. She was not in much better humour on Sunday, especially when, coming hastily into the parlour with a message from Lisabel, I gave her a start--for she was sitting, not writing, but leaning over her desk, with her fingers pressed upon her eyes. It startled me, too, to see her; we have grown so used to this affair, and Penelope is so sharp-tempered, that we never seem to suspect her of feeling anything. I was foolish enough to apologise for interrupting, and to attempt to kiss her, which irritated her so that we had almost a quarrel. I left the room, put on my bonnet, and went off to evening-church--God forgive me! for no better purpose than to get rid of home. I wonder, do sisters ever love one another? Not after our fashion, out of mere habit and long familiarity, also a certain pride, which, however we differ among ourselves, would make us, I believe, defend one another warmly against strangers--but out of voluntary sympathy and affection. Do families ever live in open-hearted union, feeling that blood is blood, closer than acquaintance, friendship, or any tie in the world, except marriage? That is, it ought to be. Perhaps it may so happen, once in a century, as true love does, or there would not be so much romancing about both. Thus I meditated, as, rather sick and sorry at heart, I returned from church, tramping through the dark lanes after papa, who marched ahead, crunching the sand and dead leaves in his usual solid, solitary way, now and then calling out to me:-- "Keep close behind me. What a pity you came to church to-night." It was foolish, but I think I could have cried. At home, we found my sisters waiting tea. Captain Treherne was gone. They never mentioned to papa that he had been at Rock-mount to-day. On Monday, he did not make his appearance. I asked Lisabel if she had expected him? "What for? I don't wish the young man to be always tied to my apron-strings." "But he might naturally want to see you." "Let him want then. My dear little simpleton, it will do him good. The less he has me, the more he will value me."